Page 7 of Check & Chase (Breakaway #1)

Chase

Chapter Four

The doctor’s words hit me like a body check, but I force my face to remain neutral. I’ve been in this game long enough to know that showing pain only makes the docs more cautious, more likely to extend recovery timelines.

And I don’t have time for extended anything. Not in October, with the entire season ahead of me.

“So what’s the plan?” I ask, keeping my voice casual, like we’re discussing a dinner menu instead of my fucked-up knee. “Tape it up, give me some anti-inflammatory, and I’m good to go for Friday?”

Dr. Reynolds, the Bears’ orthopedic specialist, shares a look with Emma, who’s standing at the foot of my hospital bed with her arms crossed.

She hasn’t said much since we arrived, but her silence speaks volumes.

Especially since the MRI confirmed exactly what she predicted after her on-ice assessment.

“Mitchell,” Dr. Reynolds says, his tone suggesting he’s dealt with hockey players like me his entire career, “this isn’t something you can play through. Your MCL is completely torn. You’re looking at six to eight weeks minimum before you can even think about getting back on the ice.”

“Six to eight weeks?” I repeat, as if hearing it again might somehow change the diagnosis. “That’s not gonna work for me, Doc. We’re playing against the Wolves on Friday. Season opener.”

“You won’t be playing,” Emma interjects, her voice firm. “You won’t be playing anyone for at least six weeks. And that’s only if you follow my rehabilitation protocol exactly.”

I look at her, hoping my Chase Mitchell charm will soften her stance. “Come on, Blondie. Work with me here.”

“I am working with you. That’s literally my job.” Her green eyes narrow. “And don’t call me Blondie in a professional setting.”

There it is again, that wall of professionalism she keeps trying to put up between us. It only makes me want to climb over it more.

Dr. Reynolds clears his throat, clearly sensing the tension. “Ms. Anderson is correct, Mitchell. The MCL provides stability to the knee. Without it, you’re at risk for further damage that could end your season completely… or worse.”

“I’ve played through worse,” I insist, though we all know that’s not true.

“No, you haven’t,” Emma snaps. “And if you attempt to play on this knee before it’s healed, you’re looking at potential surgery, which would extend your recovery by months, not weeks.”

Surgery. The word no athlete wants to hear.

“Fine,” I relent, not because I accept their timeline, but because arguing is getting me nowhere. “What’s the protocol?”

Dr. Reynolds outlines his treatment plan: rest, ice, compression, and elevation for the first week, followed by progressive rehabilitation. No weight-bearing for at least two weeks. No skating for at least six. Physical therapy sessions three or more times a week.

I pretend to listen while my mind races, calculating how many games I’ll miss, how this will affect my stats, my contract negotiations.

This is supposed to be my year—the season that cements my position as one of the league’s elite forwards.

Instead, I’ll be watching from the side while the team plays without me.

“Do you understand, Chase?” Dr. Reynolds asks, pulling me back to the present.

“Yeah, sure,” I reply automatically. “Rest, rehab, return. Got it.”

Emma’s expression makes it clear she doesn’t believe me for a second.

“Ms. Anderson will be overseeing your rehabilitation,” he continues. “She has extensive experience with this type of injury and an excellent track record for recovery outcomes.”

“Lucky me.” I shoot Emma a wink; she rolls her eyes, unimpressed.

“I’ll leave you in her capable hands, then.” Dr. Reynolds stands, gathering his tablet. “Follow the plan, Mitchell. I mean it.”

After he leaves, silence fills the room. Emma busies herself reviewing my charts, pointedly ignoring my gaze.

“You ran onto the ice.”

She looks up. “What?”

“Earlier today. You ran onto the ice to help me.”

A flush creeps up her neck. “It’s my job.”

“Most physical therapists don’t sprint across ice rinks without hesitation. Especially not ones who look terrified of being there.”

Her eyes widen slightly before she composes herself. “I wasn’t terrified.”

“You were having a panic attack by the time they carried me off,” I counter. “Your friend had to help you back to solid ground.”

Her jaw tightens. “That’s not relevant to your treatment.”

“See, that’s where you’re wrong, Blondie. I think it’s very relevant.” I adjust my position on the bed, wincing as pain shoots through my knee. “Why would someone who’s clearly scared of the ice choose to work with hockey players?”

“I’m not scared of the ice,” she mutters, but the flicker in her eyes says otherwise. “And my career choices are none of your business.”

“Everything about you is my business now,” I reply with a grin. “Since we’re going to be spending a lot of time together over the next six weeks. ”

“As your physical therapist,” she emphasizes. “Nothing more.”

“We’ll see.”

The nurse arrives with my discharge papers and a pair of crutches before Emma can respond. She’s probably grateful for the interruption, but I’m just getting started.

After the paperwork is complete, a hospital orderly wheels me to the exit while Emma walks alongside, her expression suggesting she’s already regretting her offer to drive me home.

“You don’t have to do this. I can call an Uber.”

“And have you try to somehow charm your way into skipping the recovery protocol?” She raises an eyebrow. “I don’t think so. I want to make sure you’re properly set up at home before I leave you to your own devices.”

“So considerate,” I drawl. “Or maybe you just want to see where I live.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Mitchell.”

“Back to ‘Mitchell’ now? What happened to ‘Chase’?”

She ignores me, focusing on helping me into her car—a sensible Subaru that somehow perfectly matches her practical personality. The process of getting in is awkward and painful, my knee protesting every movement despite the pain medication they gave me at the hospital.

A hiss escapes me as I finally settle into the passenger seat, and Emma’s mask cracks just enough for me to catch the worry in her eyes.

“You okay?”

“Never better,” I lie through gritted teeth.

She doesn’t call me out on it, just shuts the door and walks around to the driver’s side. As she slides in, her scent fills the enclosed space. Something light and floral, like she just walked through a garden.

“What’s your address?” she asks, starting the car.

I rattle it off, watching as she inputs it into her GPS. “You know, I’m starting to think you actually care about me, Blondie.”

She sighs, pulling out of the hospital parking lot. “I care about all my patients. ”

“But I’m your favorite, right?”

“You’re my most annoying, that’s for sure.”

I laugh, the sound turning into a groan as the car hits a pothole, jolting my knee. Emma’s eyes flick to me, then back to the road.

“Sorry,” she murmurs. “Pinewood’s roads are a disaster.”

“No worries. Gives me an excuse to make wounded noises and earn your sympathy.”

“Is that your strategy? Pity points?”

“Is it working?”

The corner of her mouth twitches, almost a smile. “No.”

“Damn. Back to the drawing board.”

We fall into silence as Emma navigates through Pinewood. My phone buzzes with incoming texts. Teammates checking in after hearing about the MRI results. Everyone except West, of course.

“Popular guy,” Emma comments, noticing the constant notifications.

“Hockey teams are like family,” I explain. “Dysfunctional at times, but we look out for each other.”

“Your actual family checking in too?”

I shake my head. “Parents are traveling in Europe. Some river cruise thing. They’ll find out when they get back.”

“You’re not going to tell them?”

“And have my mother on the next flight back, fussing over me like I’m ten years old with a skinned knee? No thanks.”

Emma frowns. “She’d want to know.”

“Probably,” I concede. “But there’s nothing she can do, so why ruin their trip?”

A pause.

“What about your dad?”

My jaw clenches before I can stop it.

I keep my voice flat. “He’s not exactly the comforting type.”

She doesn’t push it, just turns onto my street—a quiet neighborhood of upscale homes on the outskirts of Pinewood, where most of the Bears players live .

“Nice place,” she comments as we pull into the driveway of my modern craftsman-style house.

“Thanks. Just moved in last month.” I don’t mention that the house feels too big, too empty when I’m the only one in it.

Emma helps me out of the car, her small frame surprisingly strong as she supports my weight. The crutches are awkward, and I haven’t quite mastered the balance yet, especially with the pain medication making me slightly fuzzy.

“Keys?” she asks when we reach the front door.

I fish them from my pocket, our fingers brushing as I hand them over. The brief contact sends a spark through me.

If Emma feels it too, she doesn’t show it, just unlocks the door and helps me inside.

My living room is spacious but sparsely furnished. There’s a massive TV, a comfortable sectional sofa, a coffee table, and not much else besides from some hockey memorabilia lining the walls.

“Typical bachelor pad,” Emma observes, guiding me to the couch.

“I prefer ‘minimalist aesthetic,’” I counter, sinking onto the cushions. The journey from car to couch has left me exhausted and sweating, my knee throbbing despite the medication.

She notices. “Pain scale, one to ten?”

“Four,” I lie.

“Try again, honestly this time.”

I meet her steady gaze and relent. “Seven. Maybe eight.”

She nods, satisfied with my answer. “Where are your pillows? You need to elevate that knee.”

“Bedroom. Down the hall, first door on the right.”

While she goes to some, I stretch out on the couch, feeling the full weight of today’s events crash down on me. The season I’d been preparing for all summer, now in jeopardy because of one bad cut during a routine practice .